


Hey, Bartender

by Secretmonkey



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Original Character(s), Season 1 revisited, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretmonkey/pseuds/Secretmonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding out about Amy and Liam, Reagan needs some time.  And, after a trip to a new bar in town, she gets way more time than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Signs

**_A/N: So... I started this a long while ago and it sucked. And I had no idea where to go with it. But now, I guess, I do. So this is the same concept (Reagan trying to keep Amy and Liam from doing the deed) but waaaaay different. And if it's too weird, blame my tumblr friends who encouraged me to just go nuts. Future chapters will see Reagan sort of traveling through S1, almost episode by episode. And, before anyone asks - this is a Reamy story. (Have you met me?). So, yeah... there it is._ **

**_Eight drinks from now…_ **

She's in Amy's room. The same room she's been in so many times.

But it's  _not_ the same.

Reagan's gotten used to that, a little. She's gotten into the habit of noting the differences, the things that don't fit with her world.

Her  _time_.

And yeah… still not used to  _that._

Time-travelling lesbian.

Sounds like the plot of one of those God-awful fanfics Amy reads online.

But this isn't a story and she's not drunk or dreaming. She's pretty sure of that by now.

After eight times… eight trips… yeah.

She's sure.

As sure as she is that this  _is_ \- differences notwithstanding - Amy's room.

Amy's room the night of her mother's wedding. The night she confessed her feelings to Karma.

The night Karma broke her heart.  _And_ Liam's.

(And fuck all, this time travelling shit has even made her start to feel bad for  _him_.)

(Though she's hard pressed to remember that  _right now_.)

This is the night.  _The_  night. The one Reagan came back to stop. The one she wanted to have never happened.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

This is the night and here she is. In Amy's room. And yeah, it's the same room. But there's differences.

Like her eyes.

Amy's eyes.

It takes Reagan a while to decide. She has to walk all around them. Study them from every angle.

Ignore the way her stomach turns at the sight of it.

At the sight of his hands on her.

_Of hers on him_.

The frozen bit, the way they're locked in place, like bad wax works statues? That doesn't bother her.

Not anymore.

She's gotten used to it. And, frankly,  _that_  scares her more than seeing her girlfriend stoned in place, perma-a-locked in Liam Booker's arms.

She's gotten  _used to it_.

Who, Reagan wonders, ever gets used to shit like this?

But, in the end, she decides. It's the eyes.

Reagan's seen those eyes in every way she can imagine.

(Though this, she has to admit, wasn't on the imagined list.)

She knows those eyes. Looking into Amy's eyes? Reagan may as well be looking in a mirror.

Until now.

Because those eyes? They're not…

Fuck. It's not even the eyes.

It's  _her_.

Or, more accurately, it  _isn't_.

This isn't Amy. Not the Amy that Reagan fell in love with. Not Shrimp Girl. Not all of her adorable insecurities and shyness and the sudden bouts of confidence she gets right before she tops Reagan and takes over and drives the older girl crazy with lust.

_That_  girl… Reagan knows  _her_  eyes.

But these eyes? These eyes Reagan's staring into, the ones glazed and locked and fixed on Liam?

They're not Amy's.

Oh, they will be. Reagan knows that. She's done this dance enough to know. Sooner or later, this Amy will become  _her_  Amy.

The one Reagan loves. The one she's held and comforted and laughed with and - as scary as it to admit - thought of a future with.

The Amy that Reagan's not so sure she wants anymore.

And the older girl gets it now. She understands.

This isn't her Amy, not yet. This girl? The one with her hands on Liam's chest, her lips parted and panting - when she's actually breathing - as he presses kisses all along her neck, one hand on her hip, the other deftly working her bra clasp?

Reagan doesn't know this girl.

Even if she has spent most of the last couple of months dating her.

Oh… wait… "dating" her.

The dating might have been… less than real. But not the caring. Not the feeling. Not the falling.

Reagan has undoubtedly proven that she will fall for Amy Raudenfeld every fucking time.

_In_  every fucking time.

But falling and caring and feeling isn't knowing. Not even a little. Reagan doesn't  _know_  this girl, even if she wants her more than anything.

It's funny, she thinks. She doesn't know if she wants the Amy she left behind. The one she knows.

And she'd kill to rip this one out of Liam's arms.

Even after tonight. Even after this Amy rejected Karma. Then rejected  _her_.

And then ended up here. Fucking Liam Booker in a drunken stupor.

It's funny, Reagan thinks.

But she's not laughing.

She turns away, hoping (futilely) that the image of this will slip from her mind. That it will become nothing more than one of the things she knows happened, but she doesn't remember.

She hopes.

Even if it's pointless.

"Take me back," Reagan says. "Back to my life."

And then he's there, stepping out of the shadows, probably from the same spot Lauren eavesdropped on Karma and Amy the first time around.

He slips into view like a fucking ninja - because, let's face it, AJ is  _all_  about the drama.

(He's like Shane. Only with less gay and more hocus pocus.)

Reagan knows how this goes by now. She's done it seven times already, she  _should_  fucking know.

She'll reach for him. Reach for the offered hand and, just as they're about to touch, just as he's about to take her hand

just as her hand's about to pass through his like he isn't even there

(because he's not)

she'll wake. Somewhere else.

Some  _when_  else.

Eight times. Eight fucking times she's done this. Eight times she's woken up in a life that isn't hers.

Or…  _wasn't_.

And every time, the thoughts flow through her, unbidden and unstoppable.

_Tossing a frisbee._

_Hanging at a party._

_Kissing Amy. In front of… everyone?_

_Woah._

_I know._

_Shane's voice. That song._

_Their song._

_The feel of Amy's breath against her lips._

And then it's gone and she's awake and she remembers.

Those aren't her memories, even if someday they might have been.

Before tonight.

And so she knows now, she doesn't want them. Not if all they do is lead her here. Lead her right to the point, the spot, the moment she was trying to escape. Trying to change.

AJ promised her she could. He told her she could change it.

He lied, apparently.

Not the first person to do that to her lately, Reagan thinks, as she reaches for his hand, ready to wake.

And when his hand closes around hers, cold and hard and very  _very_  there…

She looks up at him. And it hits her.

It's the eyes.

Those lying fucking eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry, Reagan."

* * *

**_Now_ **

_You should go_.

It's funny, Reagan thinks. Of everything that was said, of every word she and Amy exchanged tonight, of every bit of the fight that may have ended them?

_Those_  are the words that stick in her brain. Those are the words she keeps hearing over and over again.

_You should go_.

She said it. And Amy's doing it.

And Reagan can't help it, she can't help watching Amy through the window, watching her shuffle down the block and - eventually - out of sight.

Reagan watches her the whole way. And even though she was the one who told her to go, even though she  _knows_ Amy has to go if they're going to have any chance…

She just keeps thinking it. Over and over again.

_Turn around. Look back._

_Come back_.

Yeah, Reagan knows she said it and she knows it's for the best.

_But…_

She also knows just how much she wishes Amy would ignore her. How much she wishes Amy would turn around and say 'fuck it' and storm back into the apartment, slamming the door open and vowing to stay right here until they work this the fuck out.

But the door stays shut. And Amy stays gone.

And Reagan stays with her head pressed against the window glass and the tears streaming down her face.

And all she can do is wish.

* * *

For only being nineteen, Reagan is remarkably self-aware. She knows things about herself, things she knows quite well.

She's a kick-ass DJ. Like good enough to make a career out of it good. Which, given that she damn near failed her senior year of high school is probably a good thing.

She's a great listener. Karma can attest to that.

After all, they've worked how many catering gigs together now and Reagan hasn't killed her yet. No matter how many times she acts like - how did Amy put it? - a horny parrot.

_Liam Liam Liam Liam_

Even the sound of the boy's name makes Reagan's skin crawl. And that was  _before_ tonight.

What else does she know?

She knows she's a better than average cook.

If your bar for average is pretty fucking low.

She knows she's a somewhat impulsive person.

OK.

Maybe a little more than somewhat.

Reagan knows full well - all  _too_  well - that she gets caught up in her emotions. She lets them blind her, lets them take the wheel and drive her to do things she'd normally never do, the kinds of things she knows aren't good ideas.

Like, maybe, keying Shelby's little sports car after she caught her fucking a boy.

Or storming out of the impromptu group hang at Communal. Practically bowling over three waiters in her haste to get away from Amy and Karma and whatever twisted little drama they had going on.

Reagan almost lost Amy that night. All because her emotions got in the way. All because she almost didn't give her a chance to explain.

She gave her that chance tonight.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Reagan_.

_It didn't mean anything, I swear._

_It was a one-time thing. An accident. I never meant…_

Amy hadn't finished that sentence, and for that, at least, Reagan was glad.

She knew there was no good way for that to end.

I never meant to do it.

I never meant to sleep with a boy I hated.

(And that just speaks volumes about Amy's self-control, doesn't it? Or her ability - her need - to lash out in the worst possible way when she's been hurt.)

I never meant for you to find out like this.

(Like  _this_? From an accidental blurt from Karma? From an angry fight between her and Liam and neither of the even noticing Reagan was in the room?)

(Great. So Amy never meant for Karma to do her dirty work.)

(Color Reagan comforted.)

I never meant for you to find out at all.

(Well, at least that would be the truth, wouldn't it?)

I never meant…

Any of this.

Maybe she didn't. Maybe Amy didn't mean for any of this to happen.

That didn't change any of it. That didn't rewind time and make none of it actually happen.

She still fucked Liam. She still did it to hurt Karma. She still lied about it. For months.

And wish I may, wish I might, Reagan thought, there was no changing that tonight.

So she gave Amy the chance tonight, gave her the chance to explain. And what did her girlfriend do with that chance?

She managed to go through pretty much the entire Cheaters 101 handbook.

Not that Amy cheated.

If there's one thing Reagan knows -  _knows_  - Amy would never do, it's cheat.

She knows how Reagan feels about that. She knows about Shelby and how fucked up Reagan was over that, how long the pain and the fear and the inability to trust had lasted.

And Reagan knows about Amy's suspicions about her dad, everything she  _thinks_  he did in those last terrible months before he left her and Farrah.

Reagan knows, better than even Karma, just how far Amy would go to avoid being like Jack.

But, still… the excuses were piling up like cord wood. One log on top of the other.

And it all came back to the same thing, over and over and over.

_It didn't mean anything_.

And the first dozen or so times Amy said it, Reagan held her tongue. She bit back every sarcastic retort. She held in every angry word, every pained reply.

Until she couldn't. Until she felt herself hit the wall, Until she just couldn't stay silent for even one more second.

It wasn't impulse. It wasn't emotions run wild.

It was the  _truth_.

_It didn't mean anything_.

Bullshit. Fucking bullshit.

It meant something, Reagan said. It meant one thing more than any others.

It meant hurting Karma.

And maybe, even now, even after they've gotten to know each other and become co-workers and - to both their great surprise - something approaching friends, Reagan can't say she's totally opposed to Karma getting hurt.

In some ways - ways Reagan's not proud of - she thinks Karma got what was coming to her.

But it isn't Karma she's concerned with.

It's Amy.

Amy. The girl Reagan loves and trusts and who - in so many ways - saves Reagan from herself on a regular basis.

The night of the pageant. The  _last_  time Reagan let her emotions get the better of her. The last time she let her insecurities and impulsivity get in the way.

She knew Amy wasn't ready. She knew the younger girl wasn't fully comfortable with labelling herself, with coming out - and not in the faking it way she had before - in front of everyone.

In front of Farrah.

And Reagan didn't  _need_  her to, not really. She didn't need a public declaration of love and lust to make her feel it. Reagan  _knew_. She knew that it wasn't Shelby all over again. She knew Amy wasn't playing with her or stringing her along.

But knowing and  _believing_ , well those aren't always the same thing.

That night, Amy talked Reagan down off the ledge. She talked and kissed and held - and  _learned_ , quickly - but what she really did, what Amy always did better than anyone else Reagan had ever known, was calm her.

She slowed Reagan down. She eased her fears.

Amy cut through Reagan's 'somewhat' impulsive nature. She brought the older girl more peace than Reagan had known since her mother left her. Maybe even before that.

That was who Amy was to her.

_Is._ Who Amy  _is_  to her.

And that Amy? The one that talks her down, the one that save hers, the one that loves her in a way that even makes Reagan love herself?

_That_ Amy could have never done it.

Not the sex. Reagan isn't a prude or a biphobic or one of those women that believes once a man has touched you, you get your lesbian card yanked.

In Reagan's book, you don't need to be a goldstar to be a lesbian.

And that night? Well, it was pretty much the perfect fucking storm.

Amy was confused. Amy was scared. Amy was hurt. Amy was drunk.

Reagan knows all too well the level of stupid that combination can bring out in people.

No, Amy -  _her_  Amy -  _could_ have fucked Liam.

It's not the what. It's the  _why_.

_Reagan's_  Amy could have never hurt Karma like that. She could have never done something so painful and spiteful and… wrong.

She might have wanted to.

But she could have never actually done it.

Except…

She did.

And now Reagan's left to wonder.

Is  _her_  Amy even real? Does Reagan even know her at all?

Which is why Reagan sent her away.

_You should go._

Reagan doesn't want to let her emotions - and fuck all if the mere  _thought_  of Amy and Liam together doesn't bring out emotions Reagan doesn't even have words for - win.

She doesn't want to let Amy slip away - like she almost did before - because of her blind anger and pain and fear.

So, Amy had to go. She  _had_  to.

Which leaves Reagan with an entirely different problem.

Amy is the one who soothes her, who cools those emotions, who brings her that peace.

It's Amy who talks Reagan down from the ledge.

But Amy's gone.

And that ledge is mighty fucking high.

* * *

There's a thousand and one ways for Reagan to handle this.

She could call Amy.

Dumb idea. The girl just left.

So, she could wait, get some sleep, let her head and her heart calm the fuck down and call her in the morning.

Better idea. Not perfect. But better.

Or…

She could call Amy. Or run out to Lightning and start driving and find Amy before she catches a bus or calls Karma or Lauren for a ride.

Or she could just start running after her, screaming her name, and begging her to come back.

And see?  _This_  is why Reagan needs Amy.

Because, left to her own devices, she's nothing but a bad influence on herself.

Reagan fights it off - going as far as to lock the door - even the deadbolt  _and_  the chain - and goes into her bedroom. She changes in to her comfiest sleepwear - Amy's bacon sweats and her brother's Army sweatshirt - wraps herself in her softest blanket, and sinks onto the couch.

And then she does the only thing she can, the one thing she knows will keep her rooted to this spot, or at least to the apartment.

She lets herself feel.

All of it.

She rages. She swears. She curses Liam and Amy and even Karma - because, come on,  _Karma_  - and she yells at the fucking universe for letting this, all of this, happen.

For letting her fall. For letting Amy have a moment of weakness. For letting Liam be… well…Liam.

And she cries. Reagan breaks down and crumples to the floor in front of the couch, hands balled into fists slamming into the cushions over and over again.

She cries for what Amy lost that night. She cries for what her girlfriend lost every day she kept it secret.

Fuck. She even cries for Karma.

And she cries for herself. Because she doesn't know how to get past this.

Because - to make matters worse - she knows that she  _doesn't_ know how to live without Amy either.

And that… that just leaves her lost.

So Reagan prays.

She prays for sleep. She prays that when she wakes in the morning, this will have all been a bad fucking dream. A hallucination of some life that isn't hers.

She prays that somehow, eight solid hours - and who the fuck is she kidding, it'll be four tear-filled ones, at best. - will have somehow changed the past.

Even if she knows.

Nothing can do that.

Reagan prays. Because, a lifetime ago, that's what she did when she was lost.

That's what she did. Before Amy.

And tonight, as she curls into a ball on the couch and squeezes her eyes shut, that's what she does again.

* * *

Here's a surprise.

It doesn't work.

The prayer or the sleep.

It's half past one in the fucking morning when Reagan wakes, her legs dangling uncomfortably off the couch.

She's got a crick in her neck like she can't believe. Her head aches from the sobbing and the sniffling and the stress. Her stomach is twisted into more knots that she can count.

Most people would pack it in. Most people would just give it up and let it overwhelm them.

But Reagan isn't most people. She's had that drilled into her day after day.

She's fierce. She's badass. She's out, she's proud.

She's a motherfucking queen.

Yeah. Totally.

Cause  _all_  badass motherfucking queens pass out on their couch sobbing and wailing at the universe. They  _all_  shuffle off that same couch, barely able to stand and  _then_  crumple back down in a crying, quivering mess at the sight of a photo on their wall.

Ok, so it's not like it's just  _any_  picture.

It's the only one. The only picture Reagan has. The rest of her walls are bare. She always swore she'd never decorate, not really, not until she had a place that was  _hers_.

A home. Not just a way-station, not just a stop over on the way to the rest of her life.

But this picture… she couldn't resist.

It's her favorite. The one she has in her truck, taped to the dash. Her and Amy in Shane's backyard, the day Amy finally asked her to make it official.

_Reamy's a thing._

And fuck all if that doesn't feel like a whole other life.

Sleep, Reagan knows, isn't coming again. That ship has sailed and sunk.

There  _are_  other options. She could work on her music or watch some horrible movie on late night TV.

She could find the Booker mansion and egg the shit out of it.

But all she really wants to do is find some peace, just a little, just enough to get through the night.

And the quickest way to do that?

Getting shit-faced it is.

Except…

The fridge is empty. Not a beer in sight.

She and Amy and Shane and Duke finished the wine last weekend.

And she and Amy and Lauren and Theo finished the vodka - and the Jack - the weekend before that.

Any other night, Reagan might worry about how much they all drink.

But this isn't any other night.

It's a sign, she thinks. A sign that she should shuffle down the fucking hall, crawl into her bed and cry herself into passing out again.

But that isn't very badass.

No. Not badass at all.

Is that, Reagan wonders, what a mother fucking queen would do.

Hell no.

_Fuck_  no.

And if she conveniently ignores the part of her brain that tells her that no badass mothefucking queen would have let the love of her life walk out the fucking door over a  _boy_ , either, well…

She'll worry about that later.

It's a sign. Reagan knows it. She knows that it's a sign that she should definitely  _not_  grab her keys and her wallet and her ID - as fake as Liam's sister - and head to the nearest bar.

It's a sign. A giant glowing neon sign. A fucking supernova bright STOP sign on her door.

Reagan's never been good with signs. Especially the ones that say stop. Especially the ones that tell her to do something opposite of what she's already set her mind to.

Amy's good with signs. Amy's good with stopping. Amy's good with common sense.

Fuck Amy.

Liam did.

And that's about all Reagan really needs, that's the only thought she really needs to run through her mind to seal the fucking deal and she's out the door before she can think better of it, before she can reconsider and do the smart thing.

Before she has a chance to realize she's forgotten her phone. Or to notice the notification light blinking.

Reagan's out the door before she has a chance to see  _Shrimps_ come up on her caller ID and before the text message comes, barely five seconds after the missed call, like Amy was typing before Reagan's voicemail even picked up.

_I need you. 911. Reagan?_

_Please._

_I'm sorry. I need you._

_Now._

Sorry. Reagan's not here right now.

Leave a message. She'll get back to you.

Sometime.

Some  _time_.

Call back in about eight drinks or so.

* * *

It's one-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday in Austin.

The getting shit-faced options, Reagan is realizing, are somewhat limited.

She's walking, which given her present emotional state and determination to get blind fucking drunk, is probably the best idea she's had all night.

But it also means she doesn't want to go far.

She stumbles along the road - her legs still sore from her failed attempt at sleep - and tries, tries so fucking hard, not to think about how she's retracing Amy's steps. About how soon she'll be coming up on the bus stop and the little shopping plaza with it's three stores, an Applebee's, and that little mom-and-pop pizza joint Amy loves.

She tries - so  _fucking_  hard - not to think about any of that.

Instead, she focuses on her options. Considers the closest and easiest bars to get to.

There's…. and then there's…. and, of course, there's…

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

This plan, Reagan realizes, sounded so much smarter before she remembered there's not a single fucking bar within walking distance of her apartment.

Maybe, she thinks, she should have listened to the signs.

Maybe, she should have thought this out more.

And maybe… no… she  _definitely_ should not be standing at the end of her street. Imagining Amy standing in this same place.

Alone. Sobbing. Broken.

And that's where Reagan is when it hits her again. Right at the intersection of 'nowhere' and 'why the fuck am I here?'.

That's where she is when it hits her. Again.

All of it.

Karma. Liam. The lies. The sex. The months of secrets.

It all runs through her mind on a continuous loop.

And mostly? That loop keeps pausing. Keeps stopping on the same fucking thing.

She let Amy leave.

Well… not exactly. She didn't  _let_  Amy leave.

She  _made_  Amy leave.

And while that distinction, that little bit of fine print probably means everything to Amy, Reagan knows it's all just semantics.

It doesn't matter why.

Amy's still gone.

And Reagan's still sober.

One of those needs to change. Like right fucking now.

She starts moving because standing still is doing nothing. Standing still is just letting that loop run over and over and fucking over again.

Moving is something. Moving is one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, one moment after another of focusing on something -  _anything_  - else.

Maybe, she thinks, she'll get lucky.

Maybe there's a grocery store she forgot about. A twenty-four hour joint with some desperate for cash college kid working the register. The kind who won't look too close at her ID or the four - no,  _five_ , definitely five - six packs of beer she's buying.

Maybe she'll get lucky.

Yeah. Like tonight's the night for  _that_.

And here's another surprise.

There's no grocery store. No liquor store. No bum panhandling on the corner with a bottle of something in a brown paper bag.

She should've listened to the signs.

But then, if she'd done that, Reagan would've missed it.

In the corner, tucked away in the dark.

A flickering, barely lit neon sign.

_AJ's._

It's a sign. Crappy and poorly lit and barely even fucking there, but it's a sign.

A literal fucking sign.

So, Reagan figures,  _that's_ gotta be a  _sign -_ the non-literal kind - right?

And even if it's not?

She's sort of past the point of caring.

It's a bar. It's open.

What more could she wish for?

* * *

She thought, at first glance, that  _AJ's_  was half empty.

At second glance, Reagan thinks that might have been overestimating it a bit.

By her count - which is admittedly fuzzy as the place is as poorly lit as its sign - there's three other souls in the joint, not a one of which even looks up at her as she walks in.

Except the guy in the corner. He eyes her from the door to the bar. His gaze rolls over her, from top to the bottom, looking her over with a certain kind of hunger that makes her skin crawl.

He looks at her like she's not disheveled and half awake and wearing food-themed clothing.

He looks at her like she's not wearing clothes at all.

For a second, Reagan thinks about bolting. She considers running for the door - hoping Mr. Guy in the Corner is too drunk to follow - and escaping back to her apartment.

This isn't her kinda place. She likes them better lit. With fewer dirty old men. With more people in general.

A crowd makes it easier. A crowd turns her into just another face, just another drink order, just another few dollars slapped down on the bartop,

Crowds make it easier to blend in, to disappear.

And, contrary to what some people

(Karma)

think, disappearing really is what Reagan likes to do best.

It's not like when she's working. When she's spinning? Then it's her  _job_.

She has to be out there. She has to keep people moving and rocking and sweating - hot and sweaty people buy the drinks, after all - and keep everyone having a good time.

DJ Reagan has to be the belle of the ball.

Spinning is her job and it's one that requires a certain set of skills, half of which don't remotely involve the music.

There's schmoozing and dancing and grinding and hip rolling.

And - sometimes - even a little eye fucking across a crowded dance floor.

DJ Reagan? She's a little bit of a flirt ho.

But that's just part of the job. She's  _The DJ_. The hostess with the mostess, the party starter, the center of fucking attention.

And yeah, she's good at it. All of it. She's got the personality. The skills, the moves, the attitude.

And it doesn't hurt that - when she's not wearing bacon sweats - she's hot as fuck.

But that's  _DJ_ Reagan.

The real Reagan? The one in love with Amy? The one who misses her mom - even when she knows she shouldn't - and wishes she could do more to help her dad and is even learning to tolerate Karma?

_That_  Reagan likes to disappear.

It's kind of funny when she thinks about it. She remembers Karma giving Amy such shit about it.

Ashcroft theory number nine hundred and five why Reagan and Amy will never last.

(Not to be mistaken for theory number 106: Reagan's a rebound. And rebounds never last. )

(Or theory number 225: Reagan's nothing like Karma, so she can't be Amy's type.)

(For someone so fucking insecure, Reagan thinks Karma has a remarkably healthy ego.)

(Or - Reagan's personal favorite - number 304: Reagan is just too hot.)

(Reagan's pretty sure Karma's never actually looked  _at_  Amy, that she's never really  _seen_ her. Cause if she had, she'd know.)

(No girl could ever be too hot for Amy Raudenfeld. They'd have to be a total smokeshow just to keep up.)

But if Karma really knew anything about Reagan, she'd know her latest theory was just fucking ridiculous.

_She's not like us, Amy. She's not shy. She likes to go out._

(Karma conveniently ignoring that the first two times Amy and Reagan met were at a party and a rave.)

_You think snickerdoodles and Netflix are going to keep a girl like that happy?_

(Reagan kinda liked the snickerdoodles. And it was true, she wasn't a huge Netflix fan. But she could quite happily spend forever watching Amy watching one of those silly documentaries.)

_Her world isn't ours. It isn't_ yours _. And sooner or later, you'll find out just how much you don't fit._

Reagan had heard most of it from outside Amy's room. She'd been tempted to barge in, to tear into Karma, to tell her wrong she was - about  _everything_  - and then tell her to go back to Liam and leave them the fuck alone.

She'd been tempted to do it for weeks.

Months.

OK, since the moment she met the girl.

But Reagan bit her tongue. She held herself in check and didn't give Karma the verbal ass kicking she deserved.

Because Reagan knew Amy loved her. And she knew Amy loved Karma too.

And there was no way Reagan was going to be the one to force her girlfriend to choose.

Besides, as it turned out, Amy beat her to the punch that night anyway.

_Snickerdoodles and Netflix? Really, Karms? Is_ that  _what you think Reagan and I do when we're alone?_

The silence from Karma was deafening.

_Well… maybe the Netflix._

A pause. Amy was learning, developing that natural timing, the skill to drop the bomb.

_But really, we just put it on for the noise. It covers my moans._

Reagan had to stifle a laugh.

_Usually. Except when Reagan does this thing with her tongue, you know, where she flattens it out and -_

_And_  then Karma had stormed out, all flushed and flustered and growling - yes, she  _growled_  at Reagan when she saw her standing there - and Reagan just arched one eyebrow.

And maybe - just  _maybe_  - she stuck out her tongue.

Maybe.

And Reagan bit back another laugh.

Like there was anything on Netflix that was loud enough to drown out Amy's moans.

And that? Thinking about Amy coming to her defense, thinking about Amy's moans, thinking about the way the blonde always moans out 'I love you, love you, love you' as she cums?

And the way that thought makes her wonder, even just for a moment, what she might have moaned as Liam fucked her?

Yeah…

Reagan needs that drink now.

Maybe two.

* * *

Reagan sits at the end of the bar, as far removed from the three other people there - especially creepy corner man - as possible. She slaps her ID down on the bar, knowing he'll ask, and orders.

"Tequila," she says. "Jose."

She's worked in enough clubs to know a few things. The basics of getting by with a fake ID.

It's all in the attitude.

When you're underage, be confident. Act like you've been there before. Keep the order simple, like it's a well practiced thing, something you do as easily as breathing or saying 'hello' on the phone.

It's easier to convince someone when you can convince yourself.

This bartender's a slim guy, late forties or so. Reagan stares at him in silence, her eyes daring him, challenging him to try and tell her she's too young.

Usually, this look? Her 'I know how young and  _fine_  I look but you best believe I'm over 21, bitch' look.

This look fucking kills.

She's not sure if it's the confidence or the way it makes her look hot, in that 'I don't really give a shit and I won't pay you any attention at all unless you do my fucking bidding' way guys seem to love.

Boys, Reagan knows, are a fucking stupid lot.

But tonight?

Tonight, Reagan imagines her look isn't quite up to snuff. It's not so much 'give the hottie her drink.'

it's a little closer to 'I just got my heart ripped out and I  _need_  a drink and if you don't serve me I'll go tell Mr. Corner Man I'll sit on his lip if he buys me one or two.'

She's kinda hoping this bartender - with his George Clooney salt-and-pepper hair and perfectly knotted tie - will take pity on her.

Right now, Reagan would kill for a little pity.

He gives the ID the once over, leaving it flat on the bar as his eyes flick from the glossy little card to her face and back again.

Reagan's seen this before. She's seen it in their eyes, recognized it when they don't buy it, when they don't believe.

She's about set to snatch her ID up off the bar, to put on her best righteously indignant glare and stalk the fuck out the door.

But she doesn't. She doesn't move, not even a muscle. She sits. She waits.

And she's not sure why.

Then he smiles at her.

And  _that's_ the weirdest fucking thing.

Not the smile. No, the smile is nice. More than nice, really.

It's warm and comfortable and it makes her feel like the world's softest blanket is wrapping its way around her chest and Reagan can't remember ever feeling safer or calmer or more…

At peace.

It's the weirdest thing. The way this guy - this  _guy_  - can look at her and make her feel…

Everything. Like her entire body is alive and every single nerve ending under her skin is sparking to life, waiting.

No… not waiting.

Anticipating.

And then it's like she's being swallowed up, like the water is rising all around her but it's so warm and calm and all Reagan wants to do is sink below the surface and never come back up.

She revels in it for just a moment, for just a little longer than she should.

For the first time since Karma's words

( _at least I didn't sleep with_ your  _best friend)_

Reagan feels right. Feels normal. Like she can breathe and the world isn't falling in on her and maybe - just maybe - there's a reason to get up in the morning.

She's suddenly self-conscious of her outfit. Suddenly concerned that bacon sweats and an old hoodie aren't attractive. Aren't impressive.

Aren't worthy.

And what the absolute fuck is  _that_  about?

Reagan shakes it off - because oh  _fuck_  no way is she suddenly discovering an attraction to guys, not even some George Clooney looking bartender - and then she glances down.

There's a shot of Tequila in front of her.

"I'll start you a tab," he says.

Reagan nods, downing the first shot, her eyes closing as the burn swells within her chest.

She's glad for the burn, glad for the sting. It kicks her free, pushes her out of the… daze?... she was in.

And when she hears the second shot slide across the bar in front of her, she keeps her eyes shut tight.

Because that smile is out there.

And she's confused. She's scared. She's hurt. She's one drink on her way to drunk.

Reagan knows all too well the level of stupid that combination can bring out in people.

All too fucking well.

* * *

She's three shots and a beer chaser in before she opens her eyes again.

The smile is gone.

Or, more accurately, it's moved to the other end of the bar.

Frighteningly enough, Reagan finds that she misses it, almost like a fucking craving for the warmth and that sinking sensation, that feeling of everything flowing up and over her and taking her down…

Oh Fuck.

She is  _not_  drunk enough for this. Not drunk enough by fucking half.

But then he's there again, from one end of the bar to the other in the span of a thought. The smile is tucked away - though she can see it lurking, hiding behind pursed lips and a serious, concerned stare - and he's leaning over the bar.

Close to her. Dangerously fucking close.

Sitting on Mr. Dark Corner's lap suddenly doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

"You know," he says, whispering almost conspiratorily, "your ID? It sucks."

There's a tone to his voice, an undercurrent. A ripple of teasing. A splash of danger. Just the tiniest hint of…

Something she can't name. Something she can't place.

But it sounds  _so_  familiar.

And Reagan can't help wanting to hear it again.

Then the smile creeps out - and 'creeps', she thinks, is the exact right word - even if it's just a tug at the end of his lips, just the tiniest of curls, the smallest twitch.

And Reagan has to look somewhere -  _anywhere_ \- else. Until she finds herself staring into his eyes.

She's struck by that old chestnut, the one about eyes being the windows to the soul.

If that's true? Then Reagan is fucking terrified. Because there's everything in those eyes.

_Everything_.

Life and love and lust and pain and sadness and unspeakable joy.

They're the eyes of someone who Reagan is quite sure has done incredibly kind and wonderful things.

And caused more pain than she can imagine.

But then he leans back and - in the shitty light of the bar - those eyes go dark and dead, as if all the life was snuffed out of them in the time it took him to lean away.

And Reagan needs another shot. Which is when she notices.

There's a full glass in her hand.

"I mean, twenty-four? Really?" He knows, Reagan realizes, that her ID is fake. He's known all along. "Should've gone a little younger," he says. "If you're a day over nineteen, I'll sell you the bar."

Reagan's hand tightens on the glass in her hand.

It's a coincidence. Bartenders are expert people watchers. Guessing her age is no big deal.

Really.

"And," he says, "don't get me started on that name."

Her eyebrow arches almost of its own free will. Reagan finds herself snapping back into reality, into the moment and not wherever she was

(lost somewhere between his smile and his eyes)

and she frowns.

"You're making fun of my name?"

He doesn't look at her as he shrugs. "i'm not usually one to talk shit about anyone's name," he says. "I don't have a lot of room to talk, you know? It's not like AJ is something so impressive."

AJ.

The sign.

This really is  _his_ bar.

He keeps going, still staring off into space. "But at least it fits," he says. "I  _am_ an AJ, no doubt about that." AJ turns to look at her and there's not even a hint of the smile and the light - or lack of it - has shrouded his eyes like mask.

"But you?" he asks. "Yvette?" He shakes his head. "No way. Not a chance in hell. You are  _so_  not a Yvette."

Reagan freezes, her hand clamping down on the shot glass hard enough that she's amazed she doesn't break it.

It's been so long - years, maybe? - since she's heard it.

Years. But the pain? That stabbing and digging and gouging agony ripping into her heart?

Yeah. That feels just like it did. That feels just like the first time.

"It was my mother's name," she says.

She says it like she always does. The emphasis on the 'was'. It works almost every time, giving whoever she's talking to the completely wrong idea that her mother's dead.

She may as well be, at least as far as Reagan's concerned, but that's  _so_  not the point.

That 'was' is a weapon. A way to make someone - AJ, in this case - feel bad, like a judgmental little prick. To make him feel a little guilt and - with any luck - to just take his smile and his magic eyes and just fuck off and leave her to her misery.

"Was," AJ says, and there's not a question there, not even the hint of one. "It was her name."

Reagan nods, an almost automatic gesture.

"So," AJ says. "Did she change it? Did she become someone else after the divorce?"

He draws closer again and this time Reagan knows.

There's no coincidence.

"Did your dad get it?" AJ asks. "Was that the deal? He got you and Glenn and the house and the truck  _and_  your mother's name?"

The glass slips from between Reagan's fingers, skidding across the bar. It slips off the edge right in front of him, but he doesn't lift a finger to stop it.

"Who are you?" Regan asks even though she's got about a thousand better questions and an even better urge to jump up and run for the fucking door.

But she doesn't.

And she has no fucking idea why.

He smiles at her again, that same smile that made her feel so much, so good, so… everything.

And now all it does is make her feel empty and dirty and terrified.

She should've listened to the signs.

"I'm AJ," he says. "The bartender." He nods down at her hands, and Reagan looks down, her eyes falling on a brand new full shot glass resting between her palms.

"You should probably drink that," AJ says. "I think your're gonna need it."

* * *

His name is AJ.

He owns the place and is - as he said - the bartender.

The only one, apparently. Which makes sense given that the place opened tonight.

About five minutes before Reagan found it.

His name is AJ and he knows every one of the other patrons - all three of them - by name.

There's Scott, the guy sitting at the table by the window.

Scott's story, AJ says, is particularly sad. He was in love with a woman who, he thought, loved him back.

But she loved her family more. And they most definitely didn't love Scott.

Not even a little.

So, when they made her choose, the love of Scott's life chose them over him. She never met him for a date they had planned, leaving him sitting at a candlelit table in a restaurant whose name he couldn't pronounce with a ring he couldn't afford in his pocket.

The saddest part? Six months later she gave birth to a baby boy. Scott's only son.

And they never met.

Then there's the woman at the other end of the bar. The blonde Reagan passed on her way in.

Her name is Rebecca. And she had everything Scott didn't. A husband. A daughter. A life with love and joy and happiness.

Until illness and the cruelties of fate took it all away.

AJ says he wonders sometimes. Which is worse. To have never had it? Or to have lost it?

Most days, he says, he thinks it's the latter.

Most days, he says, he's pretty fucking sure.

And then… well… there's Mr. Dark Corner.

AJ doesn't want to talk about him. Really, he doesn't.

But what we want isn't always what we get to do.

Mr. Dark Corner's real name is Cole. And, AJ says, Reagan was right to be scared of him, to think there was something wrong there.

Cole, AJ says, is a bad man.

A  _bad_  man.

He's not like the others. He didn't love and lose.

He took.

Cole, AJ says, did damage. He hurt people, people that loved him. People that trusted him and people he should have protected.

He hurt them. Until someone else protected them.

And that's all AJ will say about that.

Besides, he says, he doesn't want to talk about  _them_.

He wants to talk about Reagan.

There is, not surprisingly, very little he doesn't know about her.

He knows about her father and her brother and how her mother left them all.

He knows why she calls her truck Lightning and he approves.

_Cars_  was an awesome fucking movie, he says.  _So_  not just for kids.

He knows that when Reagan wants to get drunk, like  _really_  drunk - she goes straight for the Jose Cuervo because that was her mother's drink of choice.

He likes that too, says it has symmetry.

AJ knows about Shelby and how she hurt Reagan.

And he knows how  _Reagan_  knew, or at least suspected, for weeks before she actually caught Shelby and her ex-boyfriend.

And if they hadn't seen her, if they hadn't caught her catching them?

AJ knows.

Reagan would have pretended. She would have lied.

She would have stayed with Shelby and let her go on fucking her over.

And that's something Reagan's never told anyone, not even Amy.

And - big surprise - AJ knows all about Amy.

_All_ about her.

He can rattle the facts off like he's the author of the Amy Raudenfeld Wikipedia page.

She loved Karma well before she kissed her at the assembly.

Somewhere, in some deep dark place that Amy doesn't even like to think about, she blames Karma.

Not for the heartbreak. Not for not loving her.

Amy blames Karma for  _that_  night. She blames her for Liam.

Somewhere deep down inside, Amy holds Karma responsible for her sleeping with Liam the night of the wedding.

Which, AJ says, isn't half as illogical as it seems.

And yeah - obviously - he knows about Amy and Liam too.

"She didn't fuck him, you know." AJ says.

Reagan doesn't respond. She sits there staring at the bar and wondering what the odds are she can make it to the door before either AJ or Cole can get to her.

"It wasn't him. Not to Amy."

She's counting the paces to the door. Mentally calculating - as well as she can half drunk and terrified - how fast she thinks Cole is.

"And I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't Karma either," AJ says. "If you're going to change things, you need to try and understand this."

She can do it, Reagan thinks. If she moves quickly and doesn't slip and goes straight for the door -

"If you want to leave, Reagan," AJ says, "no one will stop you. Not me. Certainly not Cole."

Her eyes snap up and she stares at AJ who is just looking at her, like he just asked about the hockey score or if it was going to rain tomorrow.

Not like he read her

"Mind," he finishes for her.

Reagan can't breathe. She can't think.

No. Not 'can't'.  _Won't_.

She won't think because, apparently, creepy bartender dude can

"Read your mind." AJ sighs. "Yeah," he says. "I can. Which means I can also tell you that you're not going to wake up because you're not asleep. And you're not drunk and hallucinating."

Easy for him to say.

"Yeah," AJ says, "I guess it is easy for me to say. But - and you need to hear this, Reagan - if you want to change things, then you need to accept that this is real and get the fuck on with it."

Change things?

AJ nods, answering the question she only thought and

(fuck)

that is the creepiest thing  _ever_.

"Creepier than Mr. Dark Corner?" AJ asks. But then he shakes his head. "Never mind. We don't have time for that. Which is ironic, all things considered, but…"

Reagan lets her eyes wander until the find his again. And even in the crappy light, she can see it.

It's the eyes.

Those eyes…

"You want to change things, Reagan?" he asks, interrupting her thoughts. "Then you need to accept that this is real. And that I'm giving you a chance."

A chance? To do what?

"To make your fondest wish come true," AJ says. "To make sure Amy and Liam never sleep together."

If wishes were horses…

"Accept that this is real,"AJ says. "And drink that."

He nods at her, at the space between her hand, the space where a shot glass full of Jose once sat.

Now, it's a glass of … well…

What the  _fuck_  is that?

(And, of course, AJ chooses  _this_ time to not answer her.)

It's liquid, but it's moving or seems to be, it's hard to tell because it's such a weird color - the oddest shade of blue Reagan's ever seen - and it's swirling in the glass and if she stares into it long enough, Reagan swears she can see…

No.

No fucking way.

She is  _not_  seeing the past at the bottom of a shot glass.

That is… well… that's just too fucking far. That's beyond the pale.

That's just  _fucked up._

"Drink it," AJ says. "Drink it and I promise, you'll have a chance to change it all. Or, you can get up. Walk out, go home, pass out, and tomorrow you'll think this was all one fucked up dream."

Sounds like a plan.

"Walk out," AJ says. "And your girlfriend will still have fucked Liam Booker. And you'll be no closer to getting over it."

She should go. Reagan knows she should.

She looks down at the other end of the bar.

Rebecca. Who had it all and lost it.

What would she do, Reagan wonders. What would she give for a chance to change things?

Or Scott. What would he do? What would he give to have even the smallest chance to meet his son?

And, she wonders, what if someone had a chance to go back. To protect the people Cole hurt. To save them before he could do it.

Maybe even to save him. Form who he would become.

She  _should_  go.

She really should.

So she grabs the glass without another thought and downs it, slamming the glass back down onto the bar when she's done, doing her best to ignore the smile on AJ's face, which becomes so much easier to do…

Once her world goes dark.

* * *

Reagan is not a morning person.

She doesn't think well in the morning. She doesn't talk well in the morning, she doesn't communicate or reason well in the morning.

And anyone who knows her knows this.

Anyone who knows her knows that talking to her before her third cup of coffee or her second Redbull is taking your life into your own hands.

Anyone who knows her, would know that bouncing on her bed, jumping up and down and over her and then back again?

Well, that's just asking for an ass kicking.

Which, of course, explains why Glenn is doing it.

Because he  _does_  know her. And he knows this irritates her. He knows it drives her nuts.

That's all the reason he needs to do anything.

Reagan waits until he comes close enough and then kicks out a leg, tripping him and sending him spilling off the bed.

"Fuck, Ray-Ray," he yells from the floor. "That shit hurt."

Reagan doesn't reply. She just buries her head further into her pillow.

Even if, really, it feels like the pillow is  _inside_ her head. Even if it feels like her head is all swollen and fluffy and full of poofs of cotton.

"Come on, baby sister," Glenn says, jumping onto the end of the bed and bouncing as hard as he can, making sure to stay just out of reach of her feet. "You don't want to be late for your first day of school."

Reagan's eyes pop open.

School?

Glenn hops down from the bed. "You gotta get up Ray-Ray. Mom said if you want a ride, you need to get out of bed. Or else it's the bus for you."

Reagan's eyes grow wider.

Mom?

Did he just…

_Mom_?

"And don't forget this," he says tossing a folder down on the bed in front of her. "Hate to see you get all lost and confused on your first day."

Still trying to process

(School? Mom?)

(Fucking  _mom?_ )

Reagan barely even notices him leave the room.

And then she notices the room. The room that is definitely not her apartment. The room that looks like someone turned Lauren loose with a paint sprayer and a mandate to use as many inspirational sayings as possible.

_Dream Out Loud_

The wall opposite her bed has that on it in big bold letters, stenciled black against the bright pink wall.

(and oh, sweet fuck is that glitter? On the  _ceiling_?)

Reagan went to bed in her own place.

She woke up in a pink frilly glitter bombed hell.

She sits up, pulling the folder Glenn tossed at her into her lap, glancing down at the cover.

And fuck all.

There's something inherently wrong about seeing Shane and Liam and - what was that girl's name? -  _Vashti_  staring up at you this fucking early in the morning.

But it's what it's above them that really does it. The words running along the top of the folder in bright red letters.

_Welcome to Hester High!_

Welcome to…

Welcome to What. The. Fuck.

"Yeah," says a voice. Reagan tears her eyes from the folder and looks up.

AJ's there. Standing at the end of her bed.

Smiling that fucking smile. The one that makes Reagan feel like she's drowning but willingly letting herself sink.

That  _fucking_ smile.

"We should probably talk," he says. "But first, you better get moving." He smiles again.

"Wouldn't want to be late on your first day."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Previously: Reagan found out about Amy and Liam, threw Amy out, cried (a lot) went to a bar, met A.J. (creepy bartender) and then went back in time, supposedly to keep Amy and Liam from sleeping together. Caught up?** _

These are the rules, according to A.J.

There are no rules.

Helpful fucker he is, really.

Reagan's starting to think - and OK, she's really past  _starting_  - that maybe he's winging this whole thing, that maybe he's never done this before, that maybe he's making it all up as he goes along.

She's not wrong. Which, she knows, is cold comfort given that she's now travelled back in time and has no way of getting back home  _except_  for Mr. No Rules.

There is  _one_  rule, A.J. says, completely disregarding his own previous 'there are no rules', and that one rule is very, very simple. Everything Reagan does, everything she says, every move she makes? It all matters. Nothing is immaterial, nothing is a  _little_  thing.

"I've seen  _Butterfly Effect_ ," Reagan mutters, quiet enough that she thinks he can't hear her but, of course, that's forgetting that he's  _inside her fucking head_. And, she quickly discovers, comparing his 'work' to a bad Ashton Kutcher movie

( _that's redundant_ , A.J. 'says')

is not the best way to get on A.J.'s good side.

He continues 'talking' and his words echo inside her head like they're her own, but she hears them in his voice and she can't decide if that makes her feel more or less insane.

_It all reverberates_ , he says.  _It's like a pebble hitting the water. Sometimes, it sinks. It just drops off the face of the Earth, disappearing to the bottom of a deep, dark nothing, never to be seen again._

Reagan wonders why it is his bar wasn't busier, given his oh so charming personality.

_Sometimes it sinks,_ A.J. says,  _but sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, it skips. It bounces across the surface of the water and it hits and soars and flips through the air, moving further and further out, along some invisible line_

(like a string, Reagan thinks, like a rope)

_and every time it hits, every time it skims the surface, there's ripples and those ripples spring out and out and there's really no telling where they'll end or how far they'll really go. They_ could  _fade to nothing and just fizzle out somewhere. The water will still and there's no harm, no foul._

Reagan senses an 'or'. There's always an 'or'.

_Or_

(told you so)

_they could go on and on and on, rippling more and more and building and building until they reach far into the sea. And then those ripples become tides and tides become waves and, before you know it, you've got a tsunami that crashes into the land and drowns you all._

_That's_  the  _rule,_  A.J. says in her head where she can hear him but not see him - and that's gonna get real fucking annoying real fucking fast - but  _that's_  what she needs to remember.

It's the only rule, he says.

Reagan has a feeling there will be more.

Whenever A.J. gets around to thinking of them.

* * *

The first time it happens, Reagan thinks she's dying.

A.J., who apparently has never met a water metaphor he didn't like, calls it the drowning.

Given the way it hits her, the way it crushes her body and leaves her gasping on the floor of her bedroom

(a bedroom she has a very hard time calling 'hers' since she's never seen it before, much less slept in it)

like she can't breathe, there's no room in her lungs for the air and there's a pressure on her chest, a thousand pounds of leaden weight and she can't tell if it's trying to rip its way into her or out.

Reagan hits the floor but she doesn't feel it. She feels nothing beneath her just the emptiness of falling and falling and falling…

No.

Not  _falling_.

Sinking.

She can feel  _that_  now, the surface of the water, her body pushing through it and sinking down and down and down until she can't see the light over her head anymore and there's nothing but dark on all sides, dark that's circling her, swallowing her, pouring itself into her until she chokes.

The first time it happens, the moment she sets foot outside of her room - the room she's never slept in, inside a house she's never seen, in a life she's never lived - Reagan is  _sure_  she's dying.

In some ways, she's not wrong.

* * *

When she wakes up, when she suddenly finds herself  _not_  drowning and - she suspects - not dead, but instead, blinking her eyes against the light, it takes Reagan all of about two minutes to figure it out.

She's in a memory. A moment in time, trapped inside her brain. It is, from the looks of things, one she lived not that long ago, but that hasn't so much as even  _crossed_  her mind, much less brought itself front and center like this, in what seems like forever.

_Forever? You really need to work on your sense of time_.

The sound of A.J.'s voice in her head does nothing but make Reagan immediately miss the sense of drowning and dying and sinking beneath the surface.

At least there it was fucking quiet.

It takes her all of about two minutes to figure out where she is

(the principal's office, the stuff of so many childhood nightmares)

(at least in this one, she has all her clothes on)

but it takes her all of  _three_  minutes to realize that this isn't quite right.

And yes, she's well aware that 'not quite right' probably comes with the whole 'time traveling lesbian' job description.

This  _is_  a memory. But it  _isn't_  hers.

It's close, she'll give it that. But close isn't close enough. It's not quite the right fit, everything's just a tiny bit off. Like her room and her house and her family and like this whole life, it all seems like it's hers, like it's what's always been, but everything is just a fraction, just the tiniest hair out of whack.

It's always that way, she knows, in memories. Everything is always different, always better or worse, happier or scarier. We're always faster, funnier, stronger, weaker in our memories. It's always just that little bit off from what really is.

Just like this.

It's the little things that do it, that tip her off. It's the tiniest bits and pieces that aren't quite right, like yeah, she's in the principal's office and  _that's_  probably right. Her senior year - the one she almost lost, the one she came thisfuckingclose to crashing and burning - she probably spent more time in Mr. Wainwright's office that she did in class.

There were a lot of offices for Reagan that year. Wainwright's, the nurse's , the counselor's, she spent a lot of time sitting in a lot of offices, filled with people - well meaning, well intentioned people, who spent a lot of time talking  _at_  her, always trying to help and never realizing that they couldn't.

So the office might be right but the rest… she picks up on it quickly, the things that don't work.

Wainwright. He's talking to her.  _To_  her. His voice is soft and laced with concern, his words coming slow and gentle - and it isn't all just the over-affected Texas drawl he used to make students think he was dumb - it's like she's fragile, like one overly harsh word, just a bit too much tone and she might shatter right there in the chair.

"That's not how he talked to me," she says, knowing full well A.J. doesn't need her to speak to hear her, but talking in her head to someone who's  _in her head_ , is just one step too far along the crazy trail for Reagan.

_But it is_ , A.J. says and Reagan is convinced, more than ever, that she really just had too much to drink and she's passed out at the bar and the creepy guy from the corner is feeling her up and her mind just needs some equally fucked up way to process it.

_You're not drunk_.

Maybe not, she thinks, but she wishes she was.

"He always gave me shit," Reagan says. "One speech after another about wasting my potential and how I shouldn't let one bad break up

(two if you count both Shelby and her parents and Reagan totally did)

mess up everything. There was never any of this touchy feely sensitive shit."

There was also never any of this counselor in the room shit, yet there she is, Ms. Davenport, sitting right next to Reagan and, more importantly, right in front of the two large and in charge security guards, the guys Wainwright called in for the thugs and the wannabe tough guys with the tattoos and the printed out at home on your mommy's HP gang symbols on their folders.

She never, Reagan remembers, required security.

_But you did_.

"The whole cryptic, chiming in from out of nowhere and then leaving Mr. Miyagi in my head shit is getting old," Reagan says, her eyes never leaving the guards.

She tunes back in, listens as Wainwright and Davenport coddle her and talk down to her - without making it seem like that's what they're doing - trying to hard to be gentle, like she's teetering on the edge and if they even breathe too hard they might send her toppling over.

Wainwright is measuring his words, being so fucking careful as he tries to find the exact right turn of phrase.

"He's afraid to say the wrong thing," Reagan mumbles, half to herself. "Like he's pretty fucking sure  _anything_  is going to be the wrong thing."

_Why would he do that?_

"He's playing nice," Reagan says. "He doesn't want to cause another outburst. He doesn't want me to run out of the room like I did in math class…"

She trails off as she hears her own words.

She never ran out of math class.

_But you did_.

But she did. And, even though she doesn't remember it this way, this isn't the first time they've talked to her like this, with a team. Sometimes Davenport, sometimes her homeroom teacher, sometimes her shrink

(She never had a shrink)

_But you -_

(shut the fuck up, A.J.)

and, lately, with security. And with every conversation she doesn't remember but knows they had, Wainwright became more deliberate, started taking longer and longer to make his point because with every conversation he got more and more scared.

Scared for her.

_Nope._

Scared  _of_ her.

He is, she remembers

(and how the hell she suddenly remembers something that never happened is beyond her)

afraid of the way she breaks, afraid she'll throw another desk or that she'll curse out another teacher or threaten another classmate. He's afraid of the very things Reagan's growing more afraid of by the second.

The way her stomach is swirling and bucking and threatening to lurch itself right the fuck out of her. The smell of vodka on her breath and afraid of the urge she might have to bolt. An urge that feels new and so fucking familiar all at once.

She could bolt. She's done it before.

(No, she hasn't.)

(and yes, A.J., she knows… but she has)

But Wainwright is droning on and on and moving back, away, behind his desk and security is drawing closer and this, Reagan remembers, is when he tells her. She's missed too many classes. Been suspended too much. Too many skips, too many fights, too many never done assignments, too many never taken tests.

"I know it's been rough," he says. "The divorce. The Shelby 'incident'. But let's be honest Reagan, you haven't handled it as well as you could have. You didn't take the help when we offered."

She says nothing.

"We did everything we could," he says. "We gave you every chance. We offered you every life line, every rope."

"Every rope," she says, "is one knot away from a noose."

And that brings security just a little closer and she can't really blame them because she can feel the sick, sarcastic,  _fucked up_  grin on her face even if inside she's fucking horrified.

But it doesn't matter. Wainwright's done with the sermon, done with the explanation. There will be no graduation, no end of school, no moving on, no college, no apartment, no DJ gigs, no cater-waitering.

No Amy.

And that's when it all goes fuzzy and everything starts sinking again - the second she thinks of Amy - and all Reagan wants is to run out of there, jump in her truck and drive. Find Amy. Hell, she'd settle for finding Karma or Liam or Shane or Lauren - anyone that can lead her back to her life. She wants to run, to bolt, to make it all stop.

But she can't.

Because she's just as much of a memory as the rest. And she sinks beneath the surface, drowning again.

* * *

This time she's sitting on her father's couch, the one he got in the divorce. That could describe half Martin's life - things he got in the divorce. The house, the car, the truck, the kids, the bills, the pain, the loss.

Yvette didn't get a fucking thing. Unless you count a new husband, a new kid, a new home.

A brand new upgraded life.

Yeah. She didn't get a thing.

It takes Reagan even less time to figure it out this time around, especially since Martin is talking to her in that same tone and with the same fear Wainwright had. With the principal it pissed Reagan off.

With her father, it damn near kills her.

And if she hated that  _other_  memory? Well, it's a fucking beaut compared to this one.

That one had the principal, a man Reagan sort of respected, telling her that she had fucked up, that she was going back to high school for a whole year of stares and under-their-breath whispers and side-eye glances.

_This_  one?

This one has her mother.

Wainwright for the win.

Martin's the one talking to her but Reagan - now Reagan  _and_ memory Reagan - isn't looking at him or hearing him or even registering that he's there. She's staring at  _her_ , over her father's shoulder, right behind him - like  _right_ behind him - one hand on his shoulder

(and just who the fuck told her that was even  _a little_  OK?)

and  _she's_  watching Reagan right back with this inscrutable look on her face, and Reagan can't tell if she's there to help or hurt or soothe or turn the ruins of what she left behind into so much scorched earth.

And really? Reagan doesn't care.

_Yes, you do_.

And he's right - fucking disembodied voice in her fucking head - because Reagan can remember, can feel her - the memory her - starting to care, starting to give a damn.

It sickens her, that feeling. The resolve cracking, the need - the raw fucking wanton need - boiling over and burning away all the well deserved anger and hate and resentment. But it happened that way, apparently, and Reagan can't change it.

But maybe memory her felt that way. Maybe  _she_ caved.

Reagan never will.

Last time it was Amy. This time it's hate. And then Reagan's drowning again.

* * *

She's at the park. Her park.

_Their_ park.

Reagan's sitting on the swing and she can smell the fresh baked doughnuts from Planter's just up the hill. She's on the swing but she isn't moving. She's just… there.

She's stuck, not going forward, not going back.

And yes, A.J., she gets it.

It's metaphor as much as memory.

But at least this one, she figures, can't be wrong. This is their park. Hers and Amy's. She never brought anyone else here

_But you did_

and oh, fuck,  _she_  did because then there's Shelby, standing in front of her. Close. Too close and with tears in her eyes and apologies on her lips and it's all Reagan can do to keep her stomach down because she can't see Shelby.

All she can see is  _him._ Fucking her. Not stopping, not pausing, not even slowing down. He just keeps on fucking her and it's all Reagan can see and she can't hear a word Shelby is saying to her

(and she doesn't want to)

(she doesn't want Shelby)

(Amy) (she wants  _Amy_ )

and the water starts to rise and Reagan can feel herself sinking but she refuses, she focuses, she pulls herself out of it because no, no, no.

No fucking way is  _this_  happening. Kicked out of school? Fine. Dealing with her mother? OK.

Taking Shelby back? In  _their_  park? On the spot she and Amy shared their first kiss?

Oh. Fuck. No.

And Shelby is apologizing. "I'm sorry," she says. "I was scared. It was all too much."

You. That's what she's saying.  _You_  were too much.

But then Shelby touches her and Reagan wants to be sick, she wants to lose it, to hate it, to curse everything about it.

But she can't.

_You didn't._

She didn't. Reagan felt the tips of Shelby's fingers trace her palm and she felt the warmth of her breath as Shelby brought that hand to her lips and pressed one soft kiss against her palm.

"It was you," she said. "It was always you."

Reagan wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to hate it. But instead, she loves it. She falls from the swing into Shelby's arms, letting the older girl hold her and cradle her and press tiny kisses all along her temple and bury her face in her hair whispering over and over how it's going to be alright.

Reagan's pretty sure alright has left the building and it ain't coming back.

Shelby's kissing her and Reagan remembers - her  _real_  memories, the ones she came with - just how those lips felt, just how much she loved them, how she could kiss Shelby once, just once, and taste her for hours.

It's a memory, a feeling, that's supposed to be good. That the Reagan that's kissing Shelby right now should -  _would_  - love.

But she's not  _her_ , no matter what the fuck time travel and the bartender in her head say.

This Reagan, the  _real_  Reagan

_She is the real Reagan_

doesn't want Shelby. She wants Amy. Only Amy.

Reagan tries, as hard as she can, to make herself lift her arms, to press her hands against Shelby's chest and push her away.

She can't. Her arms, her hands, none of it. Nothing will listen.

So she screams. Not out loud. In her head. Where only she and A.J. can hear. She screams Amy's name over and over and over.

And STOP. Over and over.

Reagan knows, it would be so much easier. Just accept this life, this other world, these memories that aren't hers no matter how many times A.J. says they are. It would be so easy to give in and let it happen. Shelby was always good at that, always good at making Reagan forget.

Mostly because Reagan never had anything she wanted to remember.

But now, she does. And she holds onto it, like a fucking rope, clinging to it and clutching it and praying that this time, when she sinks and drowns and surfaces again, the rope will keep her safe, will guide her home.

That Amy will save her.

And as the current rises and Reagan sinks, she holds fast to that rope, to the words she knows by heart.

"No matter where you go."

"I'm never far."

And the waters take her down.

* * *

STOP.

Reagan yells it, screams it, shooting straight up on the couch, panting and heaving and the world swimming in colors in front of her as she gropes blindly for her rope, for the hands she wants to hold.

But Amy's not there.

Her mother is.

And so is Glenn and Martin and even a dog she doesn't recognize. They're all there. But they're not moving. But they're not just not moving. They're locked, stuck in mid-motion, like a freeze frame.

Glenn's got a washcloth in his hand. Martin is hovering over her on the couch, one hand reaching for her. And Yvette….

She's standing back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed and Reagan thinks - ever so briefly - that some things never change.

"And some things do," A.J. says, leaning over the back of the couch and smiling that fucking smile at her. "Welcome back, Reagan," he says. "Welcome to your new old life."


End file.
